Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  “I know it sounds strange, but I have spent so much time thinking about the parents… I almost feel I know them. Could you please pass on my condolences, their daughter looked a beautiful girl.”

  “I’ll do that… time to restart your own life?”

  Going in to speak with the Detective Inspector, Hannah had wondered when she would emerge again out of that door leading back to the front desk. She had feared it would be hours, days even, or worse that she wouldn’t at all, instead leaving the police station from some rear exit in a prison van. It had in fact only taken a revolutionary twenty-six minutes. The teenager and the elderly man were still there, waiting patiently, almost meditatively, and the desk clerk was knocking back the last drops of tea from the same cup she had been given when they had gone through.

  “All done?” she asked with a smile.

  “All done,” they replied in unison.

  Outside, both the drilling and the rain had stopped, but the sky remained dull and the scene remorselessly urban, its soundtrack still that of city traffic and sirens… but to Hannah and Nicole it seemed that they had emerged into a completely different world and – as if on a stage before it, hugging each other on the police station steps – it felt a much better one.

  29

  Bay of Biscay – Friday 9th December 2016

  For the third morning in a row, Fergus awoke in the early hours and lay restless in bed with the events of the previous evening spinning in his mind: yes, the waking nightmare with the magician on stage had been bad, but worse had been his realisation that he might be a murderer… an intended slaying, an act more wicked, more criminal even, than the death of Justine, as that at least had been in part an accident, even if the cyclist hadn’t had the conscience to stop. He also felt disturbed by the idea of sinister, orange clad monks padding about the ship in the wee small hours of the morning and he wracked his brain in search of an explanation, but it never came.

  He got dressed and put his head out of the door, looking left then right, up and down the corridor. No sign of life. He ventured out and began his nocturnal wanderings, his enjoyment of the still and quiet of a deserted ship calming his mind, temporarily freeing him from the anxiety and worries which had been his dominating thoughts. Bars, lounges, public rooms, all empty, save for those ghosts of passengers past. It was eerie, but also very appealing and he was aware again that there had to be many areas of the ship to which he did not even have access: crew quarters, kitchens, laundries, engine rooms, holds, a brig maybe – secret places passengers never saw, but from which mysterious monks could emerge when everyone else was asleep, and into which they could subsequently retreat before anyone awoke.

  Fergus opened the heavy door leading outdoors, stepped through it and headed towards the windy bow from where, once more, he looked up at the stars, this time completely alone. He wanted to pray, but he didn’t know what to pray for: for forgiveness for killing the arachnid lady, or for a miracle that he might not have done so? He had already experienced one miracle in Lancashire, would two in a lifetime be asking too much? Perhaps this is how the poor, anonymous woman felt who had written to Katie all those years ago, thinking she had been responsible for killing Justine. God, how had she lived with that thought in the more than six years now since the TV programme had aired? A ship’s lights glimmered distantly on the horizon ahead.

  Suddenly, Fergus became aware of someone approaching, startled, he quickly looked around: it was Nicole, her auburn hair blowing out in the wind.

  “Can’t sleep…” but she said it in a way which left him unsure as to whether it was a question or a statement. He decided to answer with a smile, after which they both stood together by the rail for a couple of minutes, gazing into the void. Eventually she said:

  “I must say you looked a bit anxious in the audience the other night, when I was singing?”

  “Yes,” he admitted… “I suppose I got myself feeling rather intense.”

  “It happens,” she replied philosophically.

  “There were lots of reasons, it was partly your voice… along with the song of course: together they made for a powerful combination. But I also have a lot on my mind. Anyway, you seemed rather intense that night too.”

  “I suppose that’s also why I am up at three o’clock in the morning…” she smiled, “but I think there was a compliment in what you were saying and, if so, thank you.”

  “Would you like me to ask why you were – still are – feeling a little uptight?” he enquired.

  “Would you like me to ask you the other reasons why you are?”

  “Not really,” Fergus admitted.

  “Me neither,” she replied.

  They stood in silence for a full five minutes. For a moment, Fergus worried whether Nicole might be in danger, whether he truly was mad and might in that insanity tip her overboard too. Even though he knew it wasn’t true, it was a terrifying vision and he gripped the rail tightly as if to anchor his hands. After a while, it was she who spoke:

  “I witnessed from backstage what happened with the magician last night…”

  “I guess that is one of the other reasons I’m feeling a bit on edge.”

  “I’m sorry… do you mind if I ask what her name was, your daughter I mean?”

  “Justine… her name was Justine.”

  It was a slight shock to Nicole: in three days’ time she would go to a police station, accompanying her mother, who would confess her responsibility for the death of a Justine. The name wasn’t common, but it was sufficiently so that she didn’t think to make an actual connection.

  “I think she had a very caring father… really I do, life isn’t all about its length… oh God, I hope that wasn’t trite…”

  “It wasn’t,” Fergus replied reassuringly… “and thank you for saying such kind things.”

  She wanted to give him a hug, she wanted to tell him all about her mother, how scared she was for her, how devastated she was to think that the woman she loved was responsible for another girl’s death, that she would be going to prison. Instead, she simply said:

  “Try to get some sleep.”

  “I will, you too… and, your singing has been…” he got stuck for an adjective that didn’t sound corny.

  “I’m going to choose ‘wonderful’,” she interjected, with another of her smiles.

  “Yes, ‘wonderful’. It’s comforting to know that there are young people out there doing what they love… I may not see her again, so will you say goodbye to Holly for me too. She’s also been very kind.”

  “I will, I promise,” she risked a peck on his cheek and headed off into the night. Fergus waited there another ten minutes or so digesting the encounter, before heading inside himself, creeping back into the cabin so as not to disturb his sleeping wife and then falling, fully clothed, into bed.

  In the morning, Sylvie woke first and was surprised to find her husband sound asleep, apparently with his clothes over his pyjamas. When he woke too, he explained that he had been unable to sleep and so had gone for a walk. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t mention Nicole.

  “Wasn’t it a bit creepy?” she asked.

  “Atmospheric, I would say.”

  They got ready for their last relaxed breakfast gazing out over the Atlantic and then eventually made their way out on deck to read, wrapping themselves up thoroughly now against the growing chill. It was an ‘everything for the last time’ day, including the Captain’s noon announcement and his standard guidance on hand washing.

  “If we haven’t got the ‘hygiene advices’ by now, then I can’t help thinking it’s a little late!” remarked Sylvie.

  “And he could have said something to acknowledge it’s our last day on board…” Fergus answered. It was a fair point, but he felt weaselly saying it, remembering the Captain’s kindly face.

  “I suspect we are cargo to him, to be offload
ed tomorrow, after which the same ‘hygiene advices’ will be given to the next passengers. He probably won’t even notice the difference. He has kept us safe though.”

  “That’s true,” Fergus conceded appreciatively.

  They ate their usual light lunch and then he went for a wander, while Sylvie retreated to the cabin to start packing. The purpose of his walk was twofold: to say a mental farewell to the ship that had been their home for nearly three weeks and also to see whether, after all, he could spot the arachnid lady. He wandered each deck in turn, but she was nowhere to be found. Eventually, he returned to the cabin where Sylvie’s half-packed case lay on her bed, but she herself was absent. He decided to resume his search for the arachnid lady, whilst keeping an eye out for his wife too. Gradually, as he wandered around, the priority became his wife, where was she? In none of the usual places that was for sure: not in their alcoves out on deck, nor the Midships Lounge where the string trio were again playing softly; not in any of the other public rooms where various quizzes, karaokes and bingo games were taking place; nor either in the comfort of the Poseidon Theatre, where the criminology lecturer, draining the whisky from his glass, had just finished his presentation on ‘the forensics of blood splattering’ and where a queue was gathering for the line dancing class to follow. Fergus began to feel a further layer of anxiety forming on top of those for the missing arachnid lady, the magician and the orange robed monks.

  In his distress, he hurried down to Reception and asked if they would put a call out for Sylvie. They were reluctant at first, not liking constant announcements being broadcast across the ship, but they could see his anguish and eventually agreed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a passenger announcement. Please would Mrs Sylvie Fredricks come to Reception on Deck 6. That’s Mrs Sylvie Fredricks to Reception please. Thank you.”

  He waited fifteen minutes, but she did not arrive and his agitation grew worse. What he didn’t realise was that he was taking part in his own French farce: he twice walked into rooms his wife had only just left; as he impatiently gave up waiting for her at their usual place towards the stern of the ship so she, three minutes later, sat down there waiting for him; when the announcement for her to attend Reception rang out she was in the hubbub of the laundry room, re-ironing a blouse to wear for their final dinner.

  After three hours of searching and numerous returns to the cabin, Fergus was frantic: this couldn’t be happening! His head throbbed and his anxieties were overwhelming him, as he stumbled ever more desperately about the Magdalena. Sylvie was all he had: please God he hadn’t lost her too! Please God he hadn’t murdered the arachnid lady! Please God there wasn’t a sinister cult prowling the ship! Please God Justine wasn’t dead! His mind reeled with worry as he staggered once again past the pot plants of Millionaire’s Row – the walls of which seemed to be pulsing in towards him as he went – before working his way back down to search the lower decks one last desperate time, but still no sign. He feared he was going to be sick.

  “Why hello there Fergus, whatever is the matter with you?”

  “I’m sorry Mrs Huffington, I’m really not feeling very well, I can’t find my wife, I think I’ve lost her!”

  “Why Fergus, calm down, you can’t lose someone for long on a ship…”

  “Thank you, thank you Mrs Huffington, but please I really can’t stop, I have to find her.” He climbed back up another set of stairs and went outside to have a further look on deck.

  “Irish coffee sir!” one of the waiters commanded more than asked, as Fergus emerged out of the door…

  “No, no, I’m looking for my wife…”

  “Very warming sir, you can get one for her too… I have them ready here…”

  “No, no, I can’t stop…”

  “But they are two for the price of one sir and very…” but Fergus had moved out of range as his increasingly panicked search continued and mental images of her falling overboard became ever more vivid… she and the arachnid lady, both somewhere in the Atlantic, either rolling face down on its surface or sinking down into its depths. There was nothing for it, he had to go back to Reception and get them to turn the ship around, so they could look for her and perhaps still launch a rescue…

  He made his way there, but before he reached it a man rushed up to him:

  “Sir, sir, good news…” Fergus saw a moment of hope and waited impatiently for the man to continue:

  “You can now buy three cruise videos for the price of two… one for you, one for your family, one for your friends…”

  Fergus’ mind reeled in bewilderment and frustration, it was almost too much, but he quickly refocussed on his goal and, with the video man clipping at his heels and reducing the price further with every step, he staggered on to Reception. When she looked up, the smart, young woman working there was startled to see what appeared to be a man in the middle of a nervous breakdown, leaning over the counter towards her:

  “It’s my wife, it’s my wife… I can’t find her anywhere, I’ve been looking everywhere! I think she must have fallen overboard… I can’t find her. She must have fallen overboard, you need to turn the ship round, you must turn the ship round and start looking for her. Please, you must do it now!”

  From behind him: “Fergus?”

  He spun around.

  “Where have you been Fergus, I’ve been looking for you all over the ship?”

  He stared for a moment in disbelief and then flung his arms around her:

  “Oh Sylvie, Sylvie, I thought I had lost you. I couldn’t bear it,” he sobbed. She let him hug her for a few seconds, then gently pushed him back.

  “I’m fine, but how have you managed to get yourself in such a state?”

  “I couldn’t find you anywhere… I looked and I looked all afternoon, they even put calls out for you. I thought…” hesitating because it now sounded so ridiculous, “I thought you had fallen overboard.”

  “I’m fine Fergus, I’m here. There’s nothing to worry about.” She drew him in for another hug and as she did so, over her shoulder, he saw the arachnid lady emerging from one of the little shops across the hallway. A second flow of relief cascaded through his body and his legs nearly gave way beneath him. The receptionist quickly brought round a chair and he sat down, with Sylvie kneeling in front of him and holding his hands.

  “Sweetheart it’s OK, everything is OK…”

  “Would you like me to call the ship’s doctor?” The receptionist asked as gently as she could.

  “No, no, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Sylvie replied.

  “Would you still like us to turn the ship around?” The video man asked sarcastically.

  “No, that won’t be necessary either, thank you.”

  She helped her husband back up and tenderly led him to the cabin, where the whole history came out: how scared he had been, and how he had also feared that he may have murdered that awful woman, that’s why he had been so quiet at dinner the previous evening.

  “Fergus, you are a crazy, crazy man!”

  “And that’s not all, there is a sinister group of hooded, orange robed monks wandering the ship at night!”

  “What?” she cried in amazement at the further evidence of madness emanating from the man she loved.

  “They wander the ship in the small hours before disappearing back somewhere deep in the hull, so they are out of sight when people are about… I’ve seen them, twice!” Sylvie thought it was time to calm things down, so she stared him solidly in the eye and said:

  “Fergus, there will be an explanation, there was for the arachnid lady, there was for me… there will be for this too. I can promise you there is not some sinister cult on board this ship…”

  “But…”

  “No, there is no sinister cult on board the ship. There will be an explanation for the…” she could hardly bring herself to say it “… for the monks
!”

  Fergus again felt exhausted and lay down on his bed, falling asleep and catching up on the two hours’ sleep which he had lost the previous night. When he awoke he saw Sylvie sitting in a chair, deep in her e-reader. He watched her intently for a few moments and perhaps she sensed it because she looked up.

  “Back in the world of the living?”

  “I made a fool of myself… sorry.”

  “With you it’s never dull!” she smiled back.

  They didn’t have much time for a pre-dinner drink, so preferred instead to get ready at leisure for the meal itself. As, a little later, they entered the restaurant – the Maitre D’ nonchalantly squirting hand sanitiser into their palms for a final time – the arachnid lady was already there at her table, with her husband. She appeared somehow much less spidery, even her eyes were less red, with perhaps just a tint of pink remaining.

  “Sorry we weren’t here last night,” her husband said (so he spoke!), “but Dorothy…” (so that was her name!) “… has had a bug and a painful dose of conjunctivitis into the bargain. We decided to eat in, in fact we’ve been in the cabin most of the last two days… not the happiest end to a cruise.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” replied Sylvie with genuine kindness, then slightly less truthfully, “yes, we missed you,” though Fergus supposed it was true in a way, at least for him.

  “We were wather worwied Dorothy,” Gentle Henry called across from his table, his face etched with a deep concern.

  Fergus felt ashamed. As he looked at the couple now, all his animosity towards them had been punctured: they looked ordinary, slightly sad even and, to his astonishment, he felt pity. What, he wondered, was their hidden history, what difficulties and disasters in life had they overcome? While he had been despising her, how many people out there cared for her deeply, perhaps even loved her? He hoped many but, observing her husband, he knew for sure that there was at least one. He looked at Sylvie: sometimes one was enough.